


the pretty follies

by GryfoTheGreat



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: AU, Blind Character, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GryfoTheGreat/pseuds/GryfoTheGreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a man with no eyes, there is a woman with too much of a heart, and there is a thread between them that will never break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the pretty follies

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as an English essay beginning with 'Finally, the smoke cleared and I could see.' I gave that up and wrote an essay about a runaway emu called Taco.
> 
> Yep.

_“Love is blind, and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit.”_

Jessica, eloping with her lover _, The Merchant of Venice_

Riza stares out the huge window at the sky that looks as it is slowly catching fire. She would paint it, if she had the skill, but she has never been able to paint. A long time ago, she had sworn to take classes, but-

That would be impossible now.

_They throw him onto the platform and Roy lands with a ‘thump’, hand splayed over his eyes. Izumi turns her slumped back, and Armstrong plunges his hands into the pillar. Riza does not notice them leave; she is too busy counting all the now-inaccessible roads in her mind._

“Penny for your thoughts?" Roy leans back in his chair, lifting his ungloved hands from the sheaves of paper lined up before him.

“Nothing,” she says. “Please, sir, get back to work. Madam Armstrong needs them signed by tomorrow.”

He grumbles and little, and bends his dark head again, mouth moving as he deciphers some intricate word. Olivier enjoys doing this; throwing needlessly difficult words into her papers, just to ruin Roy’s day.

Riza diverts her gaze from the now-golden sky and continues to work.

 

The first few days were terrible.

They’d stumbled back into his apartment, Riza hanging onto his arm, squawking at him to ‘MIND THE DOO-oh.’ He’d simply ignored her and sequestered himself in the library while she tried to clean the month’s worth of dust that had accumulated. She found him later in his bed, sleeping; but when she entered the library, she found a veritable zoo of books, trashed on the floor, pages open like screaming mouths.

 

Slowly, they had learned.

Roy devoted himself to Braille, falling asleep with his face buried in the books, leaving dotted imprints on his cheeks. Riza learned to cook something that wasn’t eggs; unfortunately, Roy was still better at cooking than her, despite his lack of sight. Roy spent hours practicing leaning back in chairs, and memorising where the doors were, when he thought Riza wasn’t looking.

She didn’t help him to wash himself. He still had some dignity.

 

He is almost thankful for his curse.

Without sight, his hearing improves; he identifies his subordinates by their footsteps. Riza’s are soft, yet definite, almost catlike. Breda walks like a farmer, letting his foot thud down without much care. Havoc walks with an exaggerated swagger, hamming up his limp whenever possible so that his steps are outrageously uneven. Fuery tries to walk quietly, but ends up being almost as bad as Breda.  Falman, conversely, naturally makes not a sound, but taps his feet unnecessarily to re-establish that _yes_ , he’s here.

Roy identifies his own footsteps as the ones that are almost always perfectly in sync with Riza’s, the ones that stutter near doors and people, the ones that make far too much noise for his liking.

 

 

Usually, he dresses himself.

The military gear proves no problem; Roy can throw on his uniform in his sleep. The formal outfits are far more trouble; Riza discreetly straightens his tie, tugs out the collar of his shirts and tautens his belt while briefing him. She always does his hair, and he complains like a squalling toddler while she combs the pomade through his hair. Eventually, she stomps on his foot with her stilettos to shut him up.

 

Roy does not blame anyone for his disability.

Only, he tells Riza, the doctor with the golden tooth is to blame, and he is long dead, as is any else to whom the blame is in any way applicable.

Riza blames Havoc, Roy, and herself in equal measure.

 

Havoc is understandably awkward around Roy.

Optimistically, he had assumed that the fabled Philosopher’s Stone would be more than enough to heal his stunted legs and Roy’s broken eyes, but there had been only dregs of mythic power left for his superior. Still, he had used them, and so his blindness would not last forever. When his sight would return, no-one knew, but Roy repeatedly told Riza that his first sight was to be her. “A sight for sore eyes!” he would chirp, and brushed his hand off her cheek to check if she was blushing. Invariably, she was.

 

Roy, nowadays is, well, _touchy-feely_. He grabs onto any available arm to guide him, be it Grumman or Armstrong (the former with creepy results and the latter with hilarious ones) feels his way along walls when no one is present, and generally sticks around Riza at all times.

Touch is one of the few things available to him regarding Riza, and he takes full advantage of it. He grasps her hand to check ‘is this document right?’, pokes her belly to tease her about her muscles, pulls on her shoulder when he needs to get her to go somewhere else (“I’m not a horse!” she scowled. “No, you aren’t!” he replied jovially. “You’re an ass!”), accidentally-on-purpose grabs her butt (usually after the aforementioned comment) and drags her along by his pinky finger when he has one of his stupid surprises for her.

Once, it was a huge German Shepherd called Kasimir; another, it was a shining set of pistols that somehow combined to create a rifle. She adored both; the dog and Hayate are life partners, and the gun is used to scare new recruits.

His favourite thing to do, however, is to plait her hair, to comb his fingers through the soft strands of her flaxen hair, and to fashion it into annoyingly ornate hairdos that he untangles moments later, a Tower of Babel rising and falling. This is why she keeps her hair long.

 

Sometimes, after work is over, they skid home along icy paths, using each other as a dead weight, prayers and each other the only defence against a topple. Once inside the door, they will spend at least ten minutes untying Roy’s scarf, half-strangling him in the process. Once out of the regimentals, Roy throws himself across the couch and Riza curls up on the armchair, sharing a bottle of whiskey or brandy or something of the sort, and talk, argue, reminisce, and laugh. Once the spirits have gone (Roy gets the last drink and the first), they retire to their adjoining rooms. On good nights, their sleep is unbroken; on bad nights, their sleep-worlds are torn by night terrors, and Roy forgets his impaired eyes. Riza rushes into his room, shakes him awake, and lets him mop up his childish tears. There is now no question of sleeping separately.

Despite getting close, painfully close, they never once kissed.

 

“I’m fine with this,” he says one day, suddenly. “You know. Me. You. Hayate. Kasimir. More than fine, actually. This is...”

He never finishes his sentence.

 

That night, he has a nightmare.

The next morning, the first thing he sees is her.


End file.
